


Dreams unto an Exile

by fandomlver



Series: the fight that will give you the right (to be free) [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Kink Meme, Slavery, Spoilers for An Ordinary Man, Spoilers for S02E02, beating as punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlver/pseuds/fandomlver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a kink meme prompt. d'Artagnan and Louis end up on the galleys after all. Trapped away from his brothers, d'Artagnan must do everything he can to protect Louis and get them both back to France.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

d'Artagnan runs out of comfort the day they step onto the galley.

Until then, he has been steadfast in his reassurances. The Musketeers are looking for him, he knows this as he knows his own name, and he’s certain they’ll be found. What slavers can possibly outwit the King’s finest?

Louis seems to be mostly in shock. He hasn’t spoken since Pepin’s death, shot because d'Artagnan wasn’t moving fast enough. Both are still spattered with blood – and other substances – despite d'Artagnan’s haphazard attempts at cleaning them during infrequent rest breaks.

d'Artagnan’s almost glad the king’s in shock. It makes him easier to handle.

He’s taken to calling the king Henri. It’s less obvious than Louis, and he can’t address him by title. Louis accepts it in numb silence.

The galley they board in Honfleur already has a crew and they’re herded down into the hold and chained to the wall. They’re packed uncomfortably close together; d'Artagnan is reminded sharply of the plans Bonnaire drew up, the ones that drove Porthos into such fury.

“d'Artagnan,” Louis says abruptly.

d'Artagnan twitches. He’s not foolish enough to think himself famous, but his commission was very public and the king has shown him off at court several times since, including to the Spanish Ambassador. It’s ridiculous, he knows, to think that because one Spaniard knows his name another will, but he’s terrified they’ll figure out who Louis is.

“It’s Charles, Henri,” he murmurs.

“I’m thirsty,” Louis says.

d'Artagnan swallows. “Yes.” Used to short rations, most of his water has gone to Louis, and most of what’s left has been used to clean them up.

Louis doesn’t seem to have anything else to say. d'Artagnan shifts slightly. “They need us able to work. They’ll bring something.”

“Not for a while yet,” someone says from several spaces away; d'Artagnan can’t see him in the gloom. “They’re weeding out the weak.”

“You’ll be fine,” d'Artagnan says mechanically; he’s not sure Louis is even hearing him.

Someone starts humming a funeral dirge, and d'Artagnan fights the urge to bury his head in his arms. One of them has to be aware.

 

He thinks it’s more than a day later when the guard finally appears. Louis has eschewed royal dignity to curl against him as best he can; d'Artagnan’s hot and uncomfortable in the muggy hold, but he hasn’t moved. The guard starts at the far end of the hold with a bucket and ladle. He’s oddly careful to spill as little as possible, but he skips straight over several men who are either dead or unconscious.

d'Artagnan jostles Louis as best he can. “Wake up,” he croaks, startled at the pain in his throat. He hadn’t thought he was that badly off yet.

He pokes and shoves Louis awake just as the guard reaches them. Louis gulps the couple of mouthfuls eagerly, seeming not to notice that he’s spilling on himself. The guard yanks the ladle away, dips it and turns to d'Artagnan.

“Give it to him,” d'Artagnan says. His throat’s burning and there’s a headache pounding behind his eyes, but Louis needs it more.

The guard snorts. “Every man gets his share and no more. Drink or go thirsty.”

d'Artagnan gives in, reaching for the ladle. The water’s stale and it tastes odd, but it eases his throat a little. The guard moves on and d'Artagnan leans back against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

Louis doesn’t answer.

Lethargy sets in too fast and too deep to be natural. d'Artagnan watches, dazed, as another couple of guards come in and begin removing the dead and unconscious men. Then they return and begin examining each of the remaining prisoners, talking to each other in Spanish and laughing.

They reach d'Artagnan first this time. He endures the inspection in silence; he’s already decided not to fight back unless he has to. As good as it would feel to hit back, he knows he couldn’t possibly win, and he can’t leave Louis here alone.

When they reach for Louis he pulls back in fear. d'Artagnan catches at the nearest arm, trying to block them, but he’s shaken off abruptly, backhanded into the hull behind him. The blow and the drug together prove irresistible, and he slides into darkness.

 

When he surfaces the room is pitch black and moving gently. He touches his head lightly, avoiding the most painful part. His fingers come back sticky.

His hair’s been shorn off, he notes absently.

Sitting up is far more painful than it should be; his ribs scream as he moves and he groans, pressing a hand against them. What happened?

“They kicked you,” Louis says abruptly. d'Artagnan jumps, and then stifles a curse at the flare of pain. “You were unconscious and they kicked you and laughed. I tried to make them stop.”

“Did they hurt you?” d'Artagnan asks when he can breathe evenly enough.

“They cut my hair.”

He senses a rant about royalty being sacrosanct coming on and moves to avoid it. “Mine too. Are you injured, Henri?”

d'Artagnan’s other neighbour shifts. “Will you two shut up? I’m trying to sleep.”

d'Artagnan manages to catch Louis’ eye before he responds. Grudgingly, he settles down. d'Artagnan’s left to find a position he can both breathe and sleep in.

It’s fitful, troubled sleep, and he feels no better when they’re woken by a guard coming down with food. It’s a different guard, but he stands over d'Artagnan to make sure he doesn’t try and give anything to Louis. They’re clearly already getting a reputation.

It’s hardtack, almost inedible. d'Artagnan forces it down, thinking fast. He needs to deal with this quickly.

“You speak French, monsieur?” He keeps his voice polite and his body language deferential. If the guard speaks no French, he’s in trouble; he knows a few Spanish words, courtesy of Aramis, but those particular words won’t help him here.

The guard laughs. “Should forget French, boy. No help where you’re going.”

“My friend…”

“He your master, boy. You a soldier, he a gent. Say it right.”

“My master,” d'Artagnan repeats unhesitatingly. “He’s – slow. He’ll work, but he needs me to show him first. He won’t understand if you tell him. Can you please tell your masters? We’re not making trouble, but we need to be together.”

The guard squats. “Slow in the head?” d'Artagnan nods. Louis is vibrating with anger beside him, but so far, at least, he hasn’t spoken. “Must be good master, you still trying to help him. No more pay for you now.”

“He’s a good master.”

The guard shoves to his feet. “No promises. I tell them.”

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan says, and then has to spend five minutes coaxing Louis to eat the hardtack under the guard’s curious eye.

“It keeps us together,” he murmurs as soon as the guard’s far enough away. “I can’t let them separate us, and getting myself killed protecting you won’t help. And this way I can show you what to do.”

”So I must be the simple one?”

“It would be hard to protect you if they thought I was simple,” d'Artagnan points out.

His neighbour shifts and d'Artagnan falls silent, trying to get some more rest while he can.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is brief discussion of beating as punishment in this chapter.

It’s probably another day before anyone reappears, and these guards start taking people out in groups of three. There’s enough light to do a head count, and d'Artagnan suppresses a curse. He and Louis will be separated into different groups.

He’s ready to beg again, but the guard takes them both together. On deck, their clothes are cut off and each has a bucket of sea water thrown over them; it stings like hellfire on d'Artagnan’s head and torso, but he knows it’s as close as he’s likely to get to medical care. Louis endures in tight lipped silence.

They’re given rough shirts and breeches and unchained one at a time to dress. As soon as he’s dressed one of the guards drags d'Artagnan across the deck, flinging him to his knees in front of a tall, well dressed man.

“This is the soldier?” the man asks in accented French. Someone murmurs an answer. “Look up, soldier.”

d'Artagnan obeys, sitting back on his heels.

“You pled for your master. Why?”

“I’m sworn to protect him,” d'Artagnan answers honestly.

The man touches d'Artagnan’s head, tilting it to see the gash. “Even when it brings you injury?”

“Even if it brings me death,” d'Artagnan says evenly. “I don’t want to die here, but if you try and separate us, I’ll fight.”

“Will he?”

“Probably not very well,” d'Artagnan says carefully. Louis is a fast and accurate shot, but he’s not as good a swordsman as he thinks and he’s all but useless in a physical fight.

“And if I allow you to stay together?”

d'Artagnan shrugs. “Then we won’t resist or fight back. We’ll work willingly.”

“And you’ll make no attempt to escape.”

He hesitates, examining the words from all angles. “I can’t promise that,” he says finally. “My duty to my master means I must help him escape if I can.”

One of the guards goes to strike him. d'Artagnan doesn’t flinch, and the tall man stops the blow with a gesture.

“I like you,” he announces. “I rarely meet a man of honour.”

d'Artagnan considers feigning shock, decides against it, and doesn’t react at all.

“I will keep you together.”

He relaxes, letting his head fall, knowing it will be seen as submission. “Thank you.”

“I have a condition. I think perhaps you would have asked for it anyway.” He hunkers, studying d'Artagnan from inches away. “On the galleys all obey or are punished. Since you will be teaching him the rules, it will be your fault if he breaks them. So any punishments will fall to you. Should you both transgress, you will receive both punishments. Do you understand?”

“I do. And you’re right. I would have asked it.”

“What is your name?”

“Charles.”

“And his?”

“Henri.”

The man sighed. “That is the first lie you have told me. But it is a small lie, so I will let it pass. Be sure it’s the last lie you tell me.”

The guards drag him to his feet and he stumbles back to Louis. “It’s all right, Henri,” he says clearly as Louis plucks anxiously at his sleeve. “They’re keeping us together.”

Louis’ face clouds briefly and then clears. “Henri,” he mutters. “And you’re Charles.”

“Yes.”

“What did you promise them to keep us together?”

“Only that we would work hard. And I think we’d have worked had whether we wanted to or not.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” Louis murmurs.

“The – our friends have followed colder trails than this one,” d'Artagnan says quietly.

“My son was baptised yesterday,” Louis says softly.

d'Artagnan has no answer for that.

 

d'Artagnan’s not quite sure what he thinks of their new master.

True to his promise, no one attempts to separate them. Apart from a few jeers that d'Artagnan coaches Louis through ignoring, no one speaks to Louis; orders all go through d'Artagnan first. Now that they’re actually working, food and water is better and more plentiful. Louis mostly confines his complaints to when they’re alone and mostly does the work he’s given.

The benches are built for three. d'Artagnan and Louis don’t have a third, and they’re not permitted to fall behind the others. By the end of the first day both are blistered, bleeding, and all but unable to move with cramps; things don’t improve much as time goes on. d'Artagnan tends Louis as best he can and sets himself on the outside of the bench, where he can control the sweep and let Louis take breaks every now and then. If the guards know what he’s doing – and he thinks they probably do – they don’t interfere.

He doesn’t think Louis has realised what he’s doing either; the king seems to think taking breaks while rowing is normal, even though no one around them stops. Depending on the distances they’re trying to travel, they’re either taken from the benches to sleep in the hold or left where they are to snatch what rest they can. Those nights are bad, as it’s almost impossible to find a position they can relax in.

Today they’ve been travelling at speed, and d'Artagnan knows they’ll be allowed to rest soon; they simply aren’t capable of continuing at this speed. Louis is whimpering on every stroke, more being dragged along by the oar’s movement than affecting it in any way.

“Rest!” a guard shouts. All over the deck slaves groan, shipping the oars and collapsing where they are. “Charles, on your feet!”

d'Artagnan obeys, silencing Louis with a gesture. The guard comes across, unchains him from the bench, and gives him a shove towards the cabin. d'Artagnan goes without protest.

He’s getting used to this. Every couple of days their master calls him to his cabin for a conversation. At first d'Artagnan was wary, seeing a plot to get Louis alone; now he thinks Domingo is actually as fascinated by his honour as he claimed to be.

“How does your master find the work?” he asks today, offering d'Artagnan a cup of water and a seat.

d'Artagnan avoids the seat, but he takes the water, draining the cup before answering. “He finds it difficult, senor. But he keeps up.”

“He keeps up because you carry him. You fascinate me, Charles. You do the work of three because he is lazy.”

“He’s not lazy. He’s just not used to this. Every day he works harder.”

“So in perhaps a year he will be as capable as any other man is on his first day. You know, those who serve me sometimes earn freedom from the galleys. You will not so long as he drags you down.”

d'Artagnan shakes his head. “You don’t free your slaves, and if you did you would never free us. Henri’s nobility, you’d be hanged for his kidnap.”

“I said freedom from the galleys, not freedom. There is other work in the great Spanish empire. Especially for a man such as you.”

“I won’t soldier for Spain, Domingo.”

Domingo hums, pouring another cup of water. “You call your master Henri.”

“It keeps him focused.” d'Artagnan’s not quite sure why Domingo lets him away with calling him by name; possibly because he never does it in company, only alone in these strange meetings. Louis has never complained about being called Henri, but in private d'Artagnan still addresses him by title anyway.

“A permissive master. How did you come to his service?”

d'Artagnan sips the water to give himself time. He hasn’t lied since their first conversation. Sometimes Domingo will allow him to refuse to answer, but not often, and d'Artagnan is loath to do it. It only shows that the subject is important.

Domingo reaches across the desk, taking the cup from him. “Charles.”

“My father was killed, and the man I thought guilty was in my master’s employ. He helped me find the true culprit and took me on as his apprentice.”

“Yet your loyalty is to your master, not to this man who helped you.”

“He isn’t here,” d'Artagnan points out. “And he would be the first to tell me Henri’s life is more important than anything else. If you’re waiting for me to give up on him, Domingo, it won’t happen. I’m his man until death.”

“What I could do with a hundred men like you,” Domingo says with a sigh, refilling the cup. He pushes it back towards d'Artagnan. “Tell me something, Charles. If I made you an offer, would you consider it? Or reject it out of hand because of who we are?”

“I suppose it would depend on the offer.”

One of the guards knocks hurriedly on the door, pushing it open. There’s a quick discussion in Spanish before Domingo turns to him. “Henri is causing trouble. He has struck one of my men.”

d'Artagnan closes his eyes briefly. “Let me go to him.”

“You know what this means.”

“Yes. Let me go to him. Please.”

Domingo gestures to the guard, who steps aside. d'Artagnan follows the noise back to the oars, sliding between guards before they realise he’s there. One of them cuffs him across the back of the head; he barely feels it, dropping to his knees next to Louis. “Henri.”

Louis scrambles to grip his arm, panting and terrified. “They were taking me away and you weren’t here!”

“They’re just taking you down to the hold to rest,” d'Artagnan tells him. “That’s all. No one’s trying to hurt you.”

“Where were you?” Louis demands. With every passing day he becomes more childish, less able to cope with the unexpected. It’s better for their story, but he’s increasingly hard to handle.

“I was attending on the senor.”

“I’m your master, you’re supposed to attend on me!”

d'Artagnan half turns, looking for a guard he knows speaks French. His Spanish is getting better, but it’s not good enough for this yet. “Let me take him below, and then I’ll come back up.” Louis protests wordlessly and d'Artagnan hushes him. “They need me to do something. It won’t take long and I’ll be back with you.”

He looks back at the guard. “Don’t make him watch this.”

The guard gestures them to go. d'Artagnan coaxes Louis down to the hold, extracts a promise from him not to move, and returns to the deck. Domingo’s waiting and d'Artagnan halts uncertainly beside him.

“Still loyal?” Domingo asks. d'Artagnan doesn’t bother to answer, and Domingo doesn’t seem surprised. “I have ordered the rod. You will bruise, but it will not break the skin. Striking a guard is five hits. Keep count in your head.”

He holds up a leather strip. d'Artagnan starts to refuse, but Domingo shakes his head. “It’s not a choice. Men have bitten their tongues and choked. That’s no way for a man like you to die. Open.”

d'Artagnan allows him to tie the gag in place. A guard unlocks one cuff and he takes off his shirt. The guard guides him to a post seemingly installed just for this. The guard pushes d'Artagnan against it, face first, and locks the cuff back around his wrist. The chain is fastened to a hook above his head, drawing him up on his toes and forward against the pole.

“Wet him down!” Domingo shouts, and water douses him from neck to feet. d'Artagnan shudders, pressing his forehead into the post, and waits for the first blow to fall.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time d'Artagnan is fully aware, he’s lying on his side on the pallet he shares with Louis and someone is inexpertly rubbing his face with a damp cloth. He moves to stop them and has to freeze at the burning pain in his back.

“…sorry, I’m sorry,” Louis is chanting when he manages to focus again.

“It’s fine,” d'Artagnan manages.

“I saved you water,” Louis tells him. “The guard said you couldn’t have any because you didn’t do any work, so I saved mine.”

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan says in surprise.

Louis awkwardly helps him to sit up and he sips the water. That tiny movement has already left him exhausted.

“Why did they hurt you?” Louis murmurs.

“To make a point, sire.” d'Artagnan can’t stop himself from slumping against Louis; surprisingly, the king only adjusts his position to keep him more or less upright.

“What point?”

“That they can, I think. How long have…”

“Most of a day. I thought you wouldn’t wake up. The guards were making bets.”

d'Artagnan blinks and then laughs softly. “You speak Spanish.”

“It seemed prudent.” Louis is silent for a while, and d'Artagnan drifts, waking when Louis continues, “I haven’t been a good master, have I.”

“It’s not your fault…”

“No excuses. It’s my duty to protect you as much as yours to protect me. I’ll be better, Charles.”

“I’m all right,” d'Artagnan tells him. “Is it night?”

“Yes. You have a little more time to rest.”

“Good,” d'Artagnan murmurs, letting himself sink again.

He’s dreading going back to the rowing bench, but he knows he won’t be given any more time. He’s surprised when a guard comes to squat beside them, eyeing them before saying “You sew?”

“I so?” d'Artagnan repeats, confused.

The guard scowls. “ _Sew_. Needle, thread.” He mimes a looping stitch.

“Sew,” d'Artagnan says, relieved. “Yes, I can sew.”

“Him?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan says firmly. “He can.”

The guard takes them both up onto the deck – the sight of the sky nearly blinds d'Artagnan – and sets them in a corner of the deck with ripped sails, needles and thread. d'Artagnan threads Louis’ needle and shows him what to do. Louis picks it up surprisingly quickly.

Sitting up is a strain on d'Artagnan, but it’s far easier than rowing would be and he’s able to lean against the railing to take some of the strain off. The sun and fresh air make up for the discomfort. They’re being watched, but they’re always being watched; no one’s actively hurting them, so d'Artagnan doesn’t care too much.

Once Louis is confident enough in his stitching he starts teaching d'Artagnan Spanish, starting with the phrases that might actually be useful to them and moving on to others. d'Artagnan’s accent is terrible, but he’s more concerned with understanding than being understood, and Louis has an impeccable accent.

Domingo comes by, pausing to inspect the work. “One more day, Charles. Then back to the oars. Yes?”

“Yes, senor,” d'Artagnan says agreeably. Louis keeps his head down, picking at a thread.

On the second day the ship pulls in at a resupply dock. d'Artagnan and Louis keep working in their corner; d'Artagnan’s hoping for a chance to slip away in the bustle, but a guard comes by and fastens their chains to the railing. d'Artagnan grimaces and keeps working. The dock workers keep wandering back and forth with supplies; occasionally one knocks into d'Artagnan or Louis, though it doesn’t seem to be malicious. Louis takes to watching out for them and warning d'Artagnan when to shuffle closer to the railing, out of their way.

Halfway through the last sail he glances up, blinks, and drops his needle in the path of one of the workers. “My apologies!” he all but shouts, in French-accented Spanish. “A mistake, I’m sorry!”

“No harm done,” the worker says genially in Spanish, crouching to pick up the needle and offer it to him. Louis kicks d'Artagnan, who looks up with a scowl and locks eyes with the worker.

Aramis offers the needle back, and Louis takes it, trembling.

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan offers, blinking.

“My pleasure,” Aramis assures him, in French this time, accented with Spanish. He lifts a fold of sail, examining their work. “Fine stitches.”

“A friend taught me.”

“Ah, good friends. Never very far from our hearts.”

“Charles!” Domingo shouts from the bridge, and d'Artagnan drops his gaze back to the sail, stitching quickly. Aramis stands, calling apologies to Domingo, and moves away.

“Quiet,” d'Artagnan warns Louis before he can speak.

“d'Artagnan…!”

“I know. Don’t show it. We don’t need to raise any suspicions.”

Louis scowls, but he obeys, going back to his work. “When do you think they’ll come?” he asks softly.

d'Artagnan glances around the deck without moving his head. “Night,” he murmurs. “We’re mooring. They’ll have an easier time in the dark.”

Domingo strides over, crouching beside them, furious. “What was that?” he spits.

d'Artagnan looks up, frowning. “Senor? Henri dropped his needle. The man returned it and complimented my stitching. That’s all.”

Domingo strikes him. It startles d'Artagnan; Domingo has touched him only once before. “You speak to no one,” he orders harshly. “Not my men, not those workers, not the other slaves, no one.” d'Artagnan flicks his eyes towards Louis and Domingo shakes his head. “Let your master find his own way for now. Not one word, Charles, until I say otherwise. Understand?”

d'Artagnan inclines his head. Domingo shoves to his feet, looking around for the nearest guard. “Get them below, now! Back to the bench.”

It’s pointless, the ship is moored, but d'Artagnan doesn’t fight anyway. The other slaves are below, all the benches empty; Louis and d'Artagnan are chained at separate ends of the room. There’s nothing to lean on or against and sitting up very quickly becomes intolerable; d'Artagnan grits his teeth, staying upright through force of will.

The room is growing darker by the time Domingo comes down, straddling the bench in front of d'Artagnan to study him. “I said that I would make you an offer,” he says softly.

d'Artagnan only watches him; Domingo waves a hand dismissively. “You may answer.”

“I have nothing to say to you, senor.” d'Artagnan can’t see Louis from here, but he hopes the other man will stay quiet.

“You may when you hear the offer.” Domingo glances along the length of the deck before looking back at d'Artagnan. “We aren’t far from France, Charles. I will send you, and Henri, with some of my men. You can deliver Henri to the hands of the French.”

d'Artagnan shakes his head slowly. “I’m not playing this game, Domingo. You won’t let him go.”

“I will. Because you will give me your word that you’ll return here, to my galley, and serve me as you do him.”

d'Artagnan stares at him. “I’ve told you, I won’t soldier for Spain.”

“Not soldier, not Spain. Me. Be my man as you are his. Buy his freedom, his return to nobility, with your honour.”

“Don’t,” Louis says from the other side of the room.

“Silence, little man,” Domingo says without looking at him.

“You would take my word?”

“I’ve seen your honour. A man like you does not stop at the borders of a country. If you give me your word I believe you will keep it. When you return you will serve as a guard, not a slave. No chains.”

“Don’t,” Louis says again. “You are my man, Charles, not his.”

“Silence,” Domingo repeats. Louis starts to protest and Domingo says flatly, “After the rod comes the cat, Henri. Do you wish Charles to taste it? Men die under it.”

“I won’t be much use to you dead,” d'Artagnan says, mind racing. Domingo can’t possibly really mean this, can he?

“As much use as you are without your word. Charles, you were not meant to sit on a bench and pull an oar, and that is all that awaits you here. I retire from my service soon, I leave this galley behind. Your next captain will not be so indulgent as I. My offer is genuine, and short lived. Live as my man, or die as a slave. That is your choice.”

“My choice is to keep my oath or break it,” d'Artagnan says softly.

“Perhaps. That depends on what you consider your oath to entail. No more talking, Charles, until I say you may.” Standing, he adds, “If you speak to him, Henri, he will be flogged. Do you understand?”

“Yes, senor,” Louis says evenly. “But I will tell you. He will not take your offer.”

“I think, to see you safe, he will do almost anything. Consider your options carefully, Charles. I will return for your answer.” He unlocks d'Artagnan’s chain, locking it back with much more slack. “Sit on the floor if it’s easier for you.”

d'Artagnan waits until he’s gone to slide off the bench and sitting on the floor, leaning on the bench. He buries his head in folded arms, trying to sort through tangled thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of your comments made me wish I hadn't already finished this so I could follow your excellent advice! I'm currently working on another fill, but when I've that finished I'm going to come back and do an alternate version of this, so if you don't like what happens in this chapter, you might like the next better. :D
> 
> (Debbie, you might like this chapter...)

He’s still sitting there when fighting breaks out above his head; he looks up wearily as Athos skids into the deck. “d'Artagnan,” he breathes, adding a hasty “Your majesty,” a moment later. He frees Louis first. d'Artagnan doesn’t blame him.

Athos crouches beside him, touching his shoulder gently. “Are you hurt?”

“I can move,” d'Artagnan says, which doesn’t quite answer the question, but it’s what Athos needs to know right now. Athos studies him for a moment before turning to the chains. “The others?”

“On deck. I’m sorry we had to wait. Porthos wanted to storm the ship as soon as Aramis said you were here.”

“I knew you’d wait for dark.”

He doesn’t stretch when the chains come off, and he knows Athos can see the stiffness in his movements, but neither of them comment on it. Athos in front and d'Artagnan behind, they escort Louis up to the deck. d'Artagnan steps around Athos, taking in the bodies of the guards – it looks like a couple of the slaves got a few licks in – and Aramis occupied with unlocking chains.

And Porthos, about to plunge his sword into Domingo’s belly.

“Porthos, stop!”

Porthos pulls the blow just in time, sword biting into the wood by Domingo’s head. Whirling, he glares at d'Artagnan. “What’re you doing?”

“Don’t.” d'Artagnan passes Athos, who makes no effort to stop him, and moves to join Porthos.

“ _Don’t_? After everything he’s done?”

“He was kind when he could be.” 

“Kind?” Louis splutters. “He had you beaten!” d'Artagnan more or less ignores him, easing into a crouch next to Domingo. He has to lean against Porthos’ legs to keep from falling over; Porthos is steady, dropping one hand to his shoulder to brace him.

“I take it you’re declining my offer,” Domingo says quietly.

“Yes.”

“Who are you, Charles?”

d'Artagnan glances back at Athos and Louis. “I’m d'Artagnan of the King’s Musketeers, senor. You should retire. There’ll be far fewer slaves passing through your hands from now on.”

“King’s Musketeers,” Domingo repeats.

“My king ordered my protection of that man. I would never have served you as I did him.” He stands, feeling Porthos move in unobtrusively to support him.

Porthos shifts slightly, looking at d'Artagnan’s back. “Five blows, d'Artagnan?”

“Five.”

Porthos grins at Domingo, then efficiently kicks him five times. The last blow is strong enough that d'Artagnan suspects he’s broken ribs. Porthos crouches next to him. “I’d kill you without a thought if he hadn’t spoken for you. Remember that. Remember who saved your life.”

Aramis has the slaves freed and huddled together by the railing. Athos looks over the group with a sigh; d'Artagnan comes back to join him, oddly light headed now that everything’s over. “Where are we?”

“About half a day from the border. We’ll have to move quickly. There are Musketeers waiting on the border but they can’t cross into Spain.”

“You’re here,” d'Artagnan points out.

“Temporary leave of absence.”

“I’m on holidays,” Aramis agrees, joining them.

“And I’m sick.” Porthos coughs, unconvincingly.

d'Artagnan smiles faintly. “Of course you are. Should we…”

He takes one step, hesitates, and collapses. The world around him vanishes into a dark haze.

 

He’s leaning forward slightly, arms around someone and bouncing lightly up and down. When he shifts, someone touches his hands. “Don’t.”

 _Porthos_. “What’s…”

“We’re almost at the border. How’re you feeling?”

“Thirsty.”

Porthos is silent for a moment. “Can you manage without stopping?”

d'Artagnan considers. “I think so?”

“Keep a hand on me.” Porthos passes back a water skin.

Tipping his head back to drink stretches his back painfully, but the water is worth it. He remembers to drink slowly, and it’s several minutes before he passes the ‘skin back, leaning back carefully.

“What’s been happening?” he asks, doing his best to look around.

“Nothing much. Louis’s riding with Aramis. Half those slaves were Spanish; they’ve mostly made a run for it, taking their chances. We’ll be at the border soon.” He’s silent for a moment. “Aramis examined you.”

“I’m just bruised. It’s nothing much.”

“And half starved. Were you giving all your food to Louis?”

“He’s the king,” d'Artagnan murmurs. “He has to survive.”

Porthos snorts. “Athos is gonna have something to say about that.”

“Something to look forward to.” d'Artagnan shifts uncomfortably.

“Lean forward,” Porthos murmurs.

“What?”

“Lean forward and let me take your weight. It won’t hurt so bad.”

“It’s too far to lean on you…”

“d'Artagnan, you could lean on me all the way back to Paris and it wouldn’t bother me. Come on. Forward.”

d'Artagnan’s too tired to argue; he leans forward, letting his weight fall on Porthos, who doesn’t seem affected at all. His back eases almost at once and he relaxes.

“There you go,” Porthos murmurs. “Not long now, we’ll be in France.”

“How’s Louis?” d'Artagnan mumbles.

“Quiet.”

“Sorry.”

“Not you, him. He’s been very quiet.”

“Oh. Yes.”

Athos pulls up beside them, glancing at d'Artagnan. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore. Is something wrong?”

“No. We’re almost to the border. We can rest there. d'Artagnan, do you think the galley master will send anyone after us?”

“I don’t think he has anyone. Just the men on the ship. By the time he tells anyone in authority…I think he’ll just give up. He was retiring anyway.”

“What was the offer?” Porthos asks.

“What?”

“You declined his offer.”

“Oh.” d'Artagnan shifts slightly, aware that Athos is still listening. “Just before you reached the ship, Domingo offered to allow me to return Louis to France if I would swear to return and serve as his guard afterwards.”

“He thought you’d betray your oath to the Musketeers?”

“He didn’t know I’m a Musketeer, he didn’t know who Louis is, he just knew I’d do anything I had to to keep him safe.” He shifts again. Leaning forward is helping, but not quite enough. “He was intrigued by my – my honour. I don’t think he meets many people he can trust.”

Athos leans over to still his movements; d'Artagnan grimaces, holding still with an effort. “Only a few more minutes,” Athos promises softly. d'Artagnan nods, lips pressed tightly together. Porthos is steady beneath him.

Athos stays beside them until half a dozen Musketeers surround them; then he pulls away slightly to talk to Sebastian, the team leader. d'Artagnan listens hazily as they talk for a few minutes, and then they’re being led to the temporary camp the Musketeers have set up while two of the younger men go to do what they can to hide their back trail.

Aramis comes to help d'Artagnan down from the horse; it’s an embarrassingly long time before he can make his legs hold him, but Aramis just braces him until he’s ready. “Come on,” he says, when d'Artagnan is finally steady. “Sebastian’s men have food and there’s pallets set up. I want to get a look at you.”

“I’m not hungry,” d'Artagnan mutters without much hope.

“I don’t care; you’re eating something.”

d'Artagnan hesitates, looking around. “Where’s Louis?”

“He’s right there,” Aramis assures him, gesturing. d'Artagnan follows the gesture and sees Louis sitting beside the fire, staring at it. “The pallets are right there, you can keep an eye on him.”

d'Artagnan grimaces. “I’m sorry, I trust you, it’s just…”

“It’s perfectly normal,” Porthos assures him, coming up on his other side. “You’ve been watching him for a while now. It takes a while to turn off.”

“How long?” d'Artagnan asks, realising suddenly that he has no idea how long they’ve been gone for.

Porthos looks at Aramis behind his head. “A little over four weeks.”

“And how much of that time did you spend in a random port town in Spain?”

“Not _random_ ,” Aramis protests, looking vaguely hurt. “The galleys often stop there to reload.”

“How long?”

“Most of it,” Porthos says cheerfully.

“Four weeks,” d'Artagnan murmurs. “How has the Court explained that?”

“King Louis is sadly very ill,” Aramis explains, crouching to help him sit on one of the pallets. “He’s in quarantine and being seen by only a couple of trusted servants, to prevent infection. There are vigils and prayer services all over Paris, it’s really very heartwarming. Lift your face, d'Artagnan, I want to look at that bruise on your cheek.”

d'Artagnan blinks; he'd forgotten about that one. “How does – who’s in charge at Court?”

“Not like Louis does much when he’s there,” Porthos points out.

“No, but he’s there. Who’s there now?”

“Mostly Rochefort. The Queen’s keeping him on a tight lead; she trusts Treville far more than Louis does right now. Between them they’re doing pretty ok.”

“I’m sorry,” d'Artagnan murmurs. “I tried, I really did, I just – there was no way to get away from them.”

Aramis glances at Porthos again before saying briskly “Lean forward.” d'Artagnan obeys numbly, flinching at the light touches on his back. Porthos vanishes somewhere. Aramis continues his examination, murmuring instructions for d'Artagnan to move or turn or bend and tell him how it feels.

Athos crouches in front of him, looking past him at Aramis. “Well?”

“Nothing is broken, and I don’t believe there’s any damage inside, but he’s very badly bruised. We should let him rest for a while.”

“Did rest,” d'Artagnan mumbles. “I was resting when you saw me.”

“Sewing?” Aramis shifts into his eyeline. “That was resting?”

d'Artagnan nods. “Domingo set us sewing so that I wouldn’t have to sit on the benches and row. I told you. He was kind when he could be.”

“You were on the benches when I found you,” Athos reminds him.

“On the _floor_ , so I could lean. Punishment for talking to Aramis.”

Aramis flinches. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. Worth it.” He glances over to check on Louis.

“d'Artagnan,” Athos says softly, “I’m sorry it took us so long to find you.”

“I’m sorry you had to find us at all. I tried, Athos, I promise. There was never a chance to get us both away, and I couldn’t leave Louis behind.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Athos agrees. d'Artagnan is vaguely aware that Aramis has withdrawn, leaving them alone. “d'Artagnan, there’s no blame for you here. You did as well as anyone could have, better than most. Louis is uninjured and he tells us that’s down to you, that you took this beating to spare him.”

“Couldn’t let him be hurt.” d'Artagnan’s starting to drift again.

“Don’t sleep yet, d'Artagnan,” Athos says firmly.

“Tired, Athos.”

“I know. Aramis is making you a draught. You can sleep when you’ve had it. Stay awake a little longer.”

“Oh…” d'Artagnan forces himself awake again, looking up to meet Athos’ eyes, sitting up to make sure he’s listening. “Athos, at the camp, in the mountains, the first night…”

“We found it. It was empty, though, cleared out.”

d'Artagnan nods quickly. “Doesn’t matter. Athos, Milady was there.”

Athos goes very still, but he doesn’t look away. “You’re certain?”

“I spoke with her. She knew who we were, she protected Louis when LeMaitre realised he was nobility. I don’t know where she went, though, she wasn’t there when we were taken away in the morning.”

“Rather a step down for Anne,” Athos murmurs.

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be foolish. My wife’s career choices are hardly your doing.” His voice is brusque, but his hands are gentle, easing d'Artagnan back to lie down again.

d'Artagnan sighs, reaching for Athos’ hand and holding on, grounding himself in the touch. Athos sits silent beside him until Aramis returns with the draught.

“This will help with the pain and stiffness,” he says, kneeling beside d'Artagnan. “It’ll make you tired, though.”

“Already tired,” d'Artagnan complains.

“I’m sure you are,” Aramis agrees. “Sit up a little, if you can.”

Athos helps, getting an arm around his shoulder without touching the bruising, and d'Artagnan swallows the draught without complaint. “Don’t want to hold us up,” he murmurs.

“Sebastian has a cart,” Athos assures him. “It will be uncomfortable, but we have to move. Louis must return to Paris as quickly as possible.”

“Uncomfortable’s fine.” d'Artagnan looks past them again.

“Porthos is sitting with Louis,” Aramis says quietly. “He won’t go anywhere. It’s safe; you can sleep.”

d'Artagnan nods dreamily, still holding on to Athos’ hands, and lets himself drift.


	5. Chapter 5

The cart really is uncomfortable. Aramis keeps d'Artagnan asleep as much as possible, and someone is always in the cart to support him as best they can, but he’s still suffering, they can all see it. Louis rides on a horse, staying near the cart. None of the Musketeers have told him, but d'Artagnan rests easier when he knows Louis is near, and he seems to have picked up on it.

Three days into the trip d'Artagnan finally manages to stay awake more than he’s asleep, watching the scenery pass by from where he’s propped in the corner. Porthos is next to him, bracing him against the swaying of the cart but otherwise letting him sit in peace.

“How much longer?” d'Artagnan asks abruptly, still watching the trees pass by.

Porthos shrugs. “Ten days, probably.”

“Ten,” d'Artagnan murmurs.

“You’ll be riding long before we reach the city.”

d'Artagnan glances over his shoulder to where Louis is riding, talking to Athos. “Yes,” he agrees, looking back at Porthos.

“You’re all right,” Porthos tells him. “No one could have done better.”

“Yes, so I’ve been told.”

“Ah, awake at last?” Louis calls, falling into step beside them. “Charles,” he adds with a smile.

“Your majesty.” d'Artagnan can’t bow, but he inclines his head respectfully.

“Oh, no more Henri? Shame, I quite liked that.” He leans over to lay a hand on d'Artagnan’s shoulder. “You have fought hard and well for me, d'Artagnan, and I will not forget it. Rest well, most loyal of my Musketeers.”

d'Artagnan bites his lip, hard. “Thank you, your majesty,” he manages. Louis smiles, spurring his horse on a little.

Porthos whistles softly. “King’s favour,” he murmurs. “Not bad, d'Artagnan.”

“All part of my master plan,” d'Artagnan agrees shakily, leaning back against the wall of the cart. Porthos affects an intense interest in the fence at the side of the road they’re travelling on, giving d'Artagnan as much privacy as possible in the confines of the cart.

Athos switches with Porthos a little later, and they ride in silence for a while before he says abruptly, "A question, d'Artagnan."

"Mmm?"

"Would you have taken the deal?"

d'Artagnan stares at the trees for a long time. Athos waits patiently.

"I don't know," he says finally.

Athos seems satisfied with that, but d'Artagnan continues. "Louis had to come back to France. That was more important than anything. But swearing service to Domingo..."

"You said he was kind."

"He was kind, when it didn't hurt him to be. And ruthless when that was better. He ordered the rod instead of the cat to spare me the risk of infection. But he struck me for speaking to Aramis. He promised that I would be a guard, not a slave, and that I wouldn’t have to fight against France, and I believe he’d have kept his word. But he’d have left us on the benches without looking back if I refused, or worked us to death first." He scrubs a hand through the uneven stubble on his head. "I don't know, Athos. To do it I'd have had to break faith with you, with the other Musketeers, with everything and everyone I've ever believed in. But to save Louis' life..." He looks away, breathing "I think so" and hopes Athos can't hear him. “I think I would, God help me.”

Athos touches his shoulder, gently, as though only repositioning them against the bumping of the cart. "I don't know what I would have done," he muses.

d'Artagnan smiles faintly. "You'd have got yourself killed for mouthing off before the first night was over."

"Probably," Athos agrees. More seriously, he adds, "I'm very proud of you, d'Artagnan. You know that, don't you? You have done more, and better, than anyone has any right to expect."

"I couldn't have done any less," d'Artagnan breathes.

"No," Athos agrees. "Still. Very proud."

It shouldn't mean as much as the King's praise, but it warms d'Artagnan far more to hear those few, awkward words from Athos.

Aramis lets him ride two days later, on the condition that he promises to go back to the cart if he needs to. d'Artagnan promises, but he has no intention of doing it. He’s spent enough time lying around, and he’s mostly only sore when he moves in certain ways.

The first day on horseback almost has him reconsidering, but Louis calls him to ride by his side, asking his input on the discussion he’s having with Athos about stopping the slavers in Paris, and the distraction is just enough to let him continue riding. The second day is easier, and after that he’s almost well again. He’s still not allowed to help set up or break down the camp, but Louis keeps him by his side during those times, too. The terrible need to keep an eye on Louis has faded as they travel, as he begins to believe that they really are safe, but he still finds himself looking for the king at odd moments.

Two days from Paris d'Artagnan is idly poking the fire while the others set up. This close to the city, Athos has dismissed most of their escort, sending them to tell Treville what’s been happening and get the freed slaves settled back with their families. Only Sebastian is left, and he’s helping Aramis with the horses while Porthos and Athos set snares around them.

“Are you quite healed now, d'Artagnan?” Louis asks abruptly.

He looks up in surprise. “Pardon?”

Louis gestures vaguely. “Are you healed.”

“Oh. Yes, your majesty, I’m fine.” A little stiff sometimes, especially in the morning, and Aramis has promised to drug him again if he even touches a weapon, but essentially he’s fine.

“I’m sorry you were injured.”

d'Artagnan looks up again. Louis is looking uncomfortable, but he’s meeting d'Artagnan’s eyes. “Sire…”

“I’m sorry you were injured because of me,” Louis says in a rush.

d'Artagnan considers half a dozen responses before settling on “I’m glad it was me and not you.”

“I don’t suppose I’d have born it nearly so well,” Louis agrees.

“Your majesty…”

“Thank you,” Louis murmurs.

“Any time, your majesty.” Shifting for effect, he adds “Although hopefully not too soon,” and is gratified when Louis laughs softly.

In Paris, they head for the garrison rather than the palace, while Treville arranges a carriage. Louis is brought back into the Louvre through a delivery entrance and hustled back to his apartments without meeting anyone. The court has already been told he’s recovering from his illness, and since he wasn’t injured beyond a few scrapes, once he’s clean there’s nothing to show he hasn’t simply been at home. 

“You’ll have to explain your hair, your majesty,” Athos says when Louis reappears in his own clothes.

“Hair’s easy, it often falls out when one is seriously ill,” Aramis says absently. “Have one of your men send for a wigmaker, your majesty, one you can trust.”

“So noted,” Louis agrees. “Thank you, Athos, I believe I’ll be safe from here. I’ll be returning to Court tomorrow; please insure that all four of you and Captain Treville are present.”

Athos bows, turning away and gesturing the others to follow him. d'Artagnan lingers for a moment, but Louis doesn’t look up and he allows Porthos to steer him out.


	6. Chapter 6

Court the next day drags on and on as everyone tells the King how glad they are he’s back and how much he was missed in the last weeks and how worried they were for him. It’s all the same and it blurs after a while.

Athos nudges d'Artagnan abruptly and he stumbles forward a step, bowing in confusion when Louis looks at him. “Ah, d'Artagnan! The Musketeer who made my cure possible.” He smiles gently.

“It was my honour, sire,” d'Artagnan says, vaguely wondering what the official story here is.

“We will not forget what you have sacrificed for us,” Louis says, shifting to more formal language. “d'Artagnan, you are now and forever King’s Champion to the House of Bourbon. Do you accept?”

d'Artagnan shifts, desperately wanting to look back at the others but not daring to. “I – such an honour, your majesty, I’m not sure I…”

“Don’t worry,” Louis says, amusement in his voice. “We would not dream of separating you from your brothers.” Lowering his voice and gesturing d'Artagnan closer, he adds, “It’s mostly ceremonial; you get to stand around and look fierce when I meet foreign diplomats.”

“I do that anyway, sire,” d'Artagnan murmurs. Anne is looking highly amused as she watches them.

“Yes, but now you get to do it from _on the dias_ ,” Louis says. “And you will have special responsibility for the Dauphin on state occasions. d'Artagnan,” he adds, more seriously, “I cannot thank you publicly for what you have done for me. Allow me this much.”

d'Artagnan takes a step back, sweeping into a deep bow. There’s only one possible answer here; he doesn’t need to look at Athos to know it. “Your majesty, I accept most gratefully,” he says clearly.

“Excellent,” Louis says cheerfully. “Rochefort, ensure that my new Champion receives an appropriate allowance. He’ll need a new uniform to start with.” Rochefort is too much the courtier to show any disgust, only bowing politely. d'Artagnan smothers a grin when Rochefort throws a glare at him. A chance to ruin some of Rochefort’s plans, to turn the king back towards Treville and the Musketeers; this is worth anything.

“Captain Treville,” Louis says loudly, “we have heard reports of slavers abducting our citizens and spiriting them beyond our borders. You will root out this foul business and end it. Whatever resources you need, you shall have. We will not see our people harmed for one day longer. Rochefort, see it done.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Rochefort agrees smoothly, and if the look he gives Treville could have killed him, no one comments on it.

“We have one more task for you, Rochefort,” Louis continues. “d'Artagnan was aided on his quest by a man named Pepin. This man gave his life in protection of ours. You are charged with finding his family and ensuring that they are looked after. A new job, or a pension. We trust you to see to the details.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Rochefort agrees, bowing.

“Please keep me informed,” d'Artagnan says politely. “I would like to speak to Madame Pepin, once she’s settled. There are things I should tell her.”

“Of course,” Rochefort repeats in exactly the same tone.

“Well, I declare Court finished for the day,” Louis announces. “You’ll excuse me, everyone, I feel the need to visit with my wife and son. Dismissed.”

Constance is waiting outside; Athos and the others wander away a few steps, talking loudly about absolutely nothing. d'Artagnan props one shoulder against the wall, watching Constance fiddle with her fingers.

“Where’ve you been?” she asks finally.

d'Artagnan swallows. “Looking for – the king’s physician needed something, rare – to help him,” he stutters finally.

“Well, if that’s not a cover for something,” Constance mutters.

d'Artagnan reaches out to catch her hands, stilling them. “If I could tell you,” he murmurs. “I’m under orders.”

“Of course,” she agrees half heartedly. Freeing one hand, she tugs gently on a lock of d'Artagnan’s hair; it’s only just beginning to grow back out, and it will take months before it falls as it did before. “What happened here?”

“I had to cut it.”

“Are you under orders for that, too?”

“I’m _sorry_.”

“I know,” she agrees with a sigh. “Your brothers – you were missed, d'Artagnan.”

“I missed everyone. You have no idea how much. But I was doing my duty.”

“Does that make it easier to bear?”

“Not even a little.” He lifts her hand to his lips, turning away before he can give in to his desires.

Aramis wraps an arm around his shoulders and Porthos nudges him sympathetically. “Come along, Sir Champion. Time to get you training again, see how badly your skills have atrophied.”

“Your faith in me is inspiring, Aramis,” d'Artagnan protests. Aramis laughs, steering him out, and d'Artagnan follows, basking in the feeling of brotherhood.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> Does it make me a terrible person if I want the story where all the plots and counter plots fail and Louis and d'Artagnan end up on a galley?
> 
> Gen, slash, anything is good. Happy ending, sad ending, angst; whatever you like.
> 
>  
> 
> Suggestions, take all or none!
> 
> \+ Louis complains about the work and lack of food until he realises d'Artagnan's giving him most of his food and doing most of his work.
> 
> \+ d'Artagnan has to protect Louis from other slaves as well as from their guards.
> 
> \+ Louis' hair gets cut off.
> 
> \+ d'Artagnan gets sick or injured and Louis has to try to take care of him.


End file.
